The little bell on the glass door jingled and I became breathless with anticipation. He looked up just for a second and then turned back, took a large knife off the rack, and started slicing into the beef tenderloin
“Lady, how much you want?” he asked the woman standing in front of him. Her ruby red lips pursed as she held up her thumb and forefinger with three inches between them.
“This much.”
“Here?” He held the knife two inches in and the woman started to scream.
“THIS much!!!” she said, slapping her palm on the counter and shaking her measurement fingers at him again.
He smirked, cut accordingly, tore off a piece of thick, shiny paper, and wrapped the beef tightly. I could watch him tear butcher paper all day.
“Thank you ma’m. Next! Number 68.”
I walked down the display counter, sliding my finger along the cold glass. So many cuts, so many choices. What would it be today? Prime Rib? Oxtail? Duck Breasts? I feel no limitations exist for my fantasies within these walls.
This past January, something hot and sexy began creeping its way through the chilly winter snows in Idyllwild, California. Locals were struck with the highly contagious Caseymania, which is like Beatlemania but without the screaming hysterical teenage girls. Well, not in Idyllwild, at least. But to inhabitants of this tiny mountain town, it was close to the same thing.
“He gets to tour, bound to make upwards of a hundred-fifty thou,” you hear an old-timer say with the cantankerous certainty of a gold prospector. Poor Casey never stood a chance. He had three big strikes against him in the TV-blurred minds of the American Idol voters (them being tweenage girls).
I've been trying to convince my sons that ramen is good for them. They're both living on their
own. They are serious about eating healthily and keeping to a budget.
They keep down their costs by avoiding processed foods and fast food
joints. They shop at Costco and buy in bulk.